


Overflow

by Legendaerie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Field Trip, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mood Whiplash, Post-Season/Series 12, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, very slight s13 spoilers if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Washington is a professional, a veteran, an escaped criminal. A survivor from Project Freelancer, who outwitted both the Meta and Malcolm Hargrove once already. A leader of the Federal Army of Chorus. He can handle four bickering soldiers and a crush on an insufferable captain. </p><p>---</p><p>  <i>"And oh, poor Atlas, the world's a beast of a burden. You've been holding on for a long time..."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Overflow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangestquiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestquiet/gifts).



> Late birthday present for StrangestQuiet! You asked for pining and PSTD (among other things) so HERE YOU GO. SSSSSSSSSORRY. Also, a MASSIVE shoutout to [Dawn](https://playerprophet.tumblr.com) for once again, being a lovely and patient beta.
> 
> Rated mostly for a brief flash of gore near the end. i know. I KNOW.
> 
> EDIT: now with [a Fance Playlist](http://8tracks.com/legendaerie/overflow)!

 

This is how it’s supposed to go. _David McCormick, alias_ _Agent Washington and formerly of the UNSC’s Project Freelancer, cleared of all criminal charges and honorably discharged, dies at 92 in his home on Colony 644._ A few paragraphs of his outstanding military service as an elite branch of the UNSC, skimming over those nasty bits about the tortured, fragmented, corrupted AI and dwelling instead on what a good soldier he had been. How he had atoned for it all and been officially pardoned of any war crimes he’d committed by following orders. How he had gone to therapy - the real kind, not that cold dissection of his psyche Price always performed with compliments instead of anaesthesia and questions instead of scalpels - and made a full recovery back into society.

This is how it goes instead; _Agent Washington watches his teammates in the Project turn traitor and kill each other, one by one, until he does the same with his very last friend. Agent Washington hides from the UNSC with a bickering band of sim-troopers that fill the void in his chest like a knife left in the wound, cold and hard but better than bleeding to death. Agent Washington crashes his own ship home into the middle of a civil war, and dies in battle because all he could ever do was follow orders._

 

* * *

 

It’s a self-defeating prophecy. Self-fulfilling, maybe? No, the first one is better. Suits him more, and the way that Washington can’t help knocking on Tucker’s door and actually waiting for a reply when he makes his daily rounds to rouse the troops. He knows what he’ll get out of a shallow pool of three responses: a grumpy shout for him to give himself a physically impossible sexual act, a dramatic comparison between Washington and Tucker’s mother, or a suavely grinning completely nude sim-trooper sliding the door open and looking as confident and unstoppable as if he were wearing the Meta’s armor.

None of them have ever really bothered him much; Tucker’s comebacks are more entertaining than cutting, more like training rounds of soft paint that splatter brightly than like bullets, and Washington has seen his fair share of naked men. He wasn’t involved in the Great Towel War of ‘26 that broke three shower stall walls and chipped one of Florida’s teeth, but Wyoming had plowed into him naked and howling with laughter and--

Anyway. Nothing Tucker does can really throw him off anymore, which is precisely why their routine has to be broken _now_ for the dramatic irony.

Washington’s knuckles haven’t even touched the door and it’s sliding open to reveal Tucker, fully dressed and with his helmet in his hands. He freezes. Tucker goes a little cross-eyed staring at Washington’s fist, then when it becomes clear that Washington’s senses have completely vacated the premises, grabs Washington’s hand and steers it out of the way.

“I got the memo, ‘s rude to keep a lady waiting,” and he winks, nudging Washington aside and waiting until he’s fully out in the sunshine to finally pop his helmet on. “Come on, Wash, keep up.”

“Good morning,” Washington says blankly, and follows him in silence. All around them, most of Armonia is still asleep - the sunlight hasn’t yet breached the walls of the city, so the sky is a rich pink above bone-white buildings like an open mouth. His HUD tells him it's just as humid, with a high chance of rain in the mountains for the next several days. Which is finally when he notices the little unread message in the corner of his visor.

_Potential recon mission. Meet at 0600 for discussion._

_\--Kimball_

Odd that he missed that. If it hadn’t been for Tucker, then maybe he would have missed it entirely, dawdled around under Carolina hunted him down, stern disapproval or good-natured teasing depending on her mood. Washington tears a little bit of dried skin off his lip in a nervous, irritated gesture.

At least he doesn’t have to try to catch up with Tucker. Even with the enforced routine of jogging, Tucker’s natural pace is somewhat slow, easy. He doesn’t stumble like a recruit still trying to fit into his boots, wobbling under the weight of his armor, but neither does he stride like Carolina, who fills every gap and plate of her suit and owns it with the confidence and ferocity of a natural predator. He just kind of strolls, attentive and practiced but generally unconcerned.

Not that Washington has spent that much time staring at Tucker while he moves, imagining the flex of his muscles under his armor, looking for the little catch in his gait that could have caused those horrific scars across his lower abdomen. He's just very perceptive.

He increases his pace until he’s a few steps ahead of Tucker, and focuses instead on the sky.

Tucker and Washington are the last to arrive, passing a perpetually chipper Caboose who waves and said something about Carolina trying to figure out what she was getting for Christmas. Doyle and Kimball look about as pleased to be working together as ever, and Carolina is leaning against the nearest wall, Epsilon at her shoulder, watching the proceedings in silence. Everything seems normal.

“We have reason to suspect,” Kimball starts, her palms still braced against the table and her visored gaze trained on a holo-map projected on the surface, “there might be an artifact in the Loreleis that Felix and Locus don’t know about.”

“That’s good, right?” Washington can’t help the instinctual glance towards Carolina, looking for her advice. She doesn’t seem to notice, too keen on the map as well. Epsilon’s head tilts a little, like he’s sharing a private joke with her, and the back of Washington’s neck prickles with unease.

“Chasing ghost stories isn’t really what we need right now,” Kimball continues.

On the other side of the table, Doyle seems to simmer in his suit with frustration. “Agent Carolina and I spent three hours interrogating Santa through Caboose--”

Tucker snorts a laugh and elbows Washington. The nudge he gives back is a purely professional gesture meant to remind him they’re in a serious meeting. Not any sort of acknowledgement of that unvoiced _bow chika bow wow_ or what an ordeal that conversation must have been.

“--moderate certainty there is at least a tomb in the side of Peak VII, less certainty that it belongs to--”

“Whoa, we’re grave-robbing? Doesn’t that seem a little… disrespectful?” Washington blurts out, because it pings at his deep-rooted horror movie survival instincts. Every helmet in the room turns to look at him. “... For us to make Santa do, I mean. Dig up someone who could have been him once. Um.”

“Maybe not,” Epsilon chimes in. “I mean, I personally would _love_ to piss on the corpse of the guy whose brain I was modeled after--”

“Focus,” Kimball warns, a little bit of an edge in her voice that reminds him of the terrified stories the Feds used to tell of the indomitable, vicious leader of the Rebellion. “That’s why we’re not sending Caboose. We’re sending you two.”

“Oh,” Washington blurts. “That’s-- okay.”

“Glad to know we have your approval, Wash,” Carolina chimes in, more amusement than warning. Kimball ignores them both.

“We might need your key-sword to unlock the tomb, Tucker. If that fails, just carve your way in.”

Across the table, Doyle slams his hand onto the map, passing harmlessly through the highlighted mountain range. “Have you no consideration for the historical or even tactical value of this site, Kimball? Must you always steamroll ever onwards, oblivious to the chaos you leave in your wake?”

“I care about the lives of my army, Doyle, more than I care about the remains of some long-dead--”

“Oh, so it’s _your_ army now, is it? Well, well, well. The truth comes out--”

“Wake me up when it’s over,” Tucker laments, and slinks back out the door they entered. Washington flags a tracker on him, watches his heat signature take several more steps before slinking down to sit in the hallway, resting his head on his folded arms. Satisfied, he mutes his helmet radio and watches Kimball and Doyle bicker in near silence.

They’re like a more deadly version of the Reds and Blues, really. Even when a common enemy unites them, they still want to keep to their own factions. Their own sides. It’s entertaining for a moment, like watching a thunderstorm from the safety of your own house, but then Carolina cuts in, body language hard and cold like a knife. And still, neither side will back down.

Suddenly, the argument doesn’t seem as funny anymore. He steps out into the hallway, watches Tucker’s head jerk up and track his progress. It’s not until he’s leaning against the opposite wall and Tucker kicks him in the shin that he remembers to unmute his helmet.

“Sorry. It got a little loud in there. What were you saying?”

“I was gonna ask how’s it hanging, and then mention how mine’s probably hanging longer than yours, but this’d be the third time I asked you in the last minute, so go fuck yourself.”

And just like that, they’re back to routine.

 

* * *

 

By the time the sun has broken over the horizon, spilling molten morning gold across the sky that gilds the bellies of pregnant clouds, Washington and Tucker and their little team of four soldiers are skating over the mountain forest in a Banshee. There’s a fog spread over the trees, blurring them into an indistinct smear across the windshield of the ship, with the occasional leafy branch jumping into sharp focus and clawing at the glass as they fly along.

“Creepy,” comments one of the New Republic soldiers assigned to join them on this mission. The motion tracker Washington had tagged him with reads Perry - he thinks that one was supposed to be their security specialist, but he’s nothing like York. Perry stands beside the pilot, one glove resting against the glass curve of the Banshee as he peers out into the fog.

Sinclair, a Federal Army soldier whose actual skill had been drowned out by Tucker’s label of _meat shield_ , kicks Perry in the ankle. “Scared?” she asks, voice a lazy purr.

“Fuck off.”

“Save the animosity for if we run into the pirates,” Washington cuts in. The ship is small enough as it is without the absurd tension between the two barely-allied factions.

The third tagalong, Ophelia, pipes in then with a “what about animals?” which makes him wonder if he got her and Perry’s specializations mixed up. Surely, the historian would be a little brighter than that, right? Or maybe she’s the demolitions one.

Someone jostles him in the side for the upteenth time, and Washington grits his teeth and sets himself to endure. He’s the senior soldier on this mission. He has to be a good example. Bring everyone back alive. Pointedly not shoot in the foot whoever keeps shoving him.

This had been their compromise; send two of Kimball’s soldiers, two of Doyle’s. Try first with Tucker's sword and one of their so-called _intellectuals_ to try to glean any information, and if that fails blow it all to hell. He prefers the latter plan, honestly, but. Professionalism.

He’s nudged again, and is tempted to at least elbow the jackass in the visor before he realizes it’s Tucker.

“You in there, Wash?” he asks.

Washington shrugs. “Yeah. Sorry, it’s just-- I’m a little tired today.”

“Not get enough sleep last night?” Tucker asks, in the tone of voice that suggests he knows Washington doesn’t sleep, finds it funny, and wants to mess with him. A tone of voice that’s like a playful headlock, and Washington can’t help but react.

“Well, one of us has to watch your ass,” he says. Just because Armonia has guards doesn’t mean he actually wants to rely on them to keep an entire city safe, because he’s bad at delegation and paranoid to a fault. There’s a beat, a pause he wasn’t expecting. Washington turns to see Tucker leaning away from him, the sharp lines of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin reading surprise. Why would-- “Wait, not-- I don’t mean like-- watch your back, I meant.”

“So you’re not watching my back?” Tucker’s leaning back in his direction, whole body screaming something akin to ‘I’m not touching you.’ Unusual restraint, coming from him. The space between them is small, delicate, and Washington feels drawn to close it, drawn in like Tucker has his own gravitational field.

“Of course I am, I try to watch everyone’s--”

“Oh, so my ass isn’t special?”

“It is and you know it. You sleep naked for god’s sakes!” He means to follow that up with a long list of all the reasons why sleeping in general is dangerous, especially sleeping out of armor, but then he notices the deafening silence in the cabin. Every head is turned to stare blankly at him, the mirrored acrylic of their visors perfectly conveying shock and judgement.

Including the pilot, which gives Washington an excellent excuse to lurch sideways and dive for the controls. They clip a tree before he can find the stick and yank it upwards, just enough to breach the fog for a moment and flood the cabin with a flare of sunlight.

“Focus on your job,” he hisses at the unfortunate pilot, the hand he braced on the back of her chair still shaking.

Washington pushes himself upright, looking back at the rest of his crew. Sinclair has crossed her arms and is leaning against the wall, still watching him. Ophelia is gripping Sinclair's upper arm - he can’t tell if she’s hiding behind her companion or trying to contain laughter. Perry’s helmet is pressed against the window like if he can’t see Washington he doesn’t exist.

And Tucker--

He can’t look at Tucker. He just pretends to fix one of his gauntlets while he tries to mop his dignity off the floor.

Thankfully, Sinclair is only too eager to pick another fight with her cabin mate. “So, rebel scum.”

Perry starts to turn, then catches himself and glowers at her before stubbornly whipping back around to stare out the window.  Sinclair cackles triumphantly, then turns back to Ophelia.

“He knows his name already. They grow up so fast.”

“Isn’t the pilot a Rebel, though, too?” Ophelia chimes in.

On cue, the pilot peers around the backside of her chair. “I was conscripted, actually, it’s my brother who--”

“Keep your eyes on the sky,” Washington snaps, and this time he’s the one who gets hit with Perry’s glare. He doesn’t back down, though he does bite his tongue when Sinclair apparently switches to a private channel, body language still speaking volumes.

Ophelia’s occasional commentary doesn’t help, either. “Oh, but I’ve never had hors d'oeuvres before! I might want to take them, even if they come from a Rebel.” and “I think it’s the other one. You know, because he complains so much?” have him crawling in his armor, but honestly, he’s just glad he doesn’t know for certain they’re talking about him.

Washington chews on his tongue and refuses to say anything further to clear up the matter of his perfectly healthy concern over Tucker’s apparent lack of self-preservation. As tempting as it is to make sure no one has the wrong idea, he knows bringing it up again would be just as incriminating.

The Banshee pitches again; he grabs a handle suspended from the ceiling and the nearest shoulder, automatically bracing his body for impact. “Kanno, what the hell?” he demands, almost welcome for the distraction.

“I’m just bringing us in for a landing!”

“At a sixty degree angle?”

Another tree clips the ship, yanking it off course as the craft pivots dramatically - Washington turns on his grav boots and squares his stance, releasing the handle to yank Perry away from the windshield. Someone grabs his other hand, firmly, at the wrist. The forest floor rushes up to meet them.

The collision makes his gritted teeth ache, but at least they land upright. There’s a massive crack in the windshield, spiderwebbing around a branch that had tried to break through mere inches from where Perry had been lurking. Washington turns his head to check behind him and nearly headbutts Ophelia, who had wrapped her arms around his bicep

“Everyone okay?” he asks, lowering his arm. Ophelia continues to cling.

Sinclair slowly releases the iron grip she has on one of the hanging handles. “Peachy,” she spits.

Tucker’s grip on his wrist slides up to slap Washington on the shoulder as he steps forward towards the pilot’s chair. “Nice landing,” he says to Kanno.

“Thanks,” she says, sounding a little dazed. “That was my first one on my own.”

So much for ‘one of the best pilots of the New Republic.’ “Everybody out of the ship,” Washington orders, letting go of Perry and shaking off Ophelia as he makes for the back hatch of the ship.

Ironically, it _was_ a pretty nice landing. Kanno managed to land the craft in a small clearing not too far outside of the spread of possible locations Doyle had marked on all their maps. The only real damage was the dent on the wing, the cracked glass on the dome-like front, and a trio of short furrows in the earth from the landing gear. They’d been lucky.

“Should we split up and start looking?” Tucker asks, once they’re all out on firm Chorus soil once more. Perry looks up from helping Kanno, who is chattering excitedly to him, out of the ship and looks directly at Washington.

“I don’t think that’s wise. If we find anything - Felix’s mercenaries or the ruins - we’ll be useless apart. It’s best we all stick together.”

Sinclair seems to say something again to Ophelia, who giggles. Washington feels hot and uncomfortable in the humidity, armor itching with the weight of the promised storm.

“Any protests?”

Silence.

Washington jerks his chin up, picks a direction, and steps out boldly. If he stumbles a little bit on a tree root he recovers fast enough for no one to notice. That’s his business. No one else’s.

Even if Tucker, over a private channel, comments a soft little “real smooth” he absolutely does not care.

 

* * *

 

His feelings--

No, he doesn’t like that term, it’s too---

His _relationship--_

God, when was the last time he had one of those that didn’t end in murder? Fuck.

His _thoughts_ about Tucker have often felt like a glass of water that’s just a little too full. He moves carefully so they don’t slosh around and make a mess of the place, barely keeping it all inside. And he’d thought that, once the newness of the whole ‘ _sure we’ll risk lying to the faces of UNSC police to keep you out of prison even though you’ve done next to nothing nice for us your entire life_ ’ gratitude thing wore off (it didn’t, not entirely, it still pops up sometimes in the worst of moments and chokes him like the noose he should have gotten) the level would go down.

It doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps getting worse.

Not by big margins or anything, just by little things. Drops. A playful nudge when Washington laps him while jogging that half the time makes Tucker trip; the rare occasion when his dirty jokes are actually funny; the way his whole body snaps to attention when he’s focused and makes every movement fluid and purposeful like the curve of a combat knife. As much as Tucker can be infuriating, agonizing even - like a blister or a rock trapped in his armor - the cup stays full, trembling with surface tension.

Tucker does something to him. Tucker finds ways to make him forget, at least for a little while, all the ways he’s fucked up. Even if it’s just finding more tolerable faults, like how the stick Washington has got shoved up his ass does wonders for keeping his back straight. Tucker talks loud enough to drown out the ghosts of everyone he underranked but outlived, listens enough to make his hard-won experience and advice mean something, and he is terrified for the day that everything overflows.

 

* * *

 

I-Spy had been Tucker’s idea.

Washington had encouraged it mostly on the grounds that he’d shot down the last three of Tucker’s suggestions - _shouldn’t we check the most open areas now before it starts raining, maybe if i just wave my sword around it’ll unlock the tomb from a distance like a keyfob or something_ , and _are you sure we shouldn’t just leave the kids back with the ship?_ \- and it feels suspicious to keep rejecting him. Like he has some reason not to listen to Tucker. And he doesn’t, obviously.

So now when it’s Sinclair’s turn again and her last two answers had been ‘that tree we passed like two hours ago’ and ‘the stick up Perry’s ass’ Washington is all too eager to end the game. He stops in front of a random rock and says, in his most serious and earnest voice, “this looks promising.”

“It looks like every other fucking rock we’ve passed by,” Tucker informs him, with no small amount of disdain. He rubs at the buckle that attaches his chestplate to the narrow bars of armor over his shoulders, as if he’s wearing a weight anywhere near comparable to what Ophelia - their demo expert, as it turns out -  is hauling around. Washington flings a brief glare his way before resuming study of the rock.

To his surprise, Sinclair actually takes a knee in front of the boulder, leaning in until her wine-red mirrored visor is mere inches from the stone. “I think it says something,” she remarks after a minute, and digs a tiny brush out of one of her hip compartments.

“Really?” Washington asks, and also takes the opportunity to reclassify her label on his motion tracker as the team’s archeologist. Not really what he expected from her complete lack of enthusiasm about this search, but hey. He’s getting pretty used to being wrong by now.

“Yeah. Give me a second to try to work it out.”

She’s barely finished talking by the time Kanno hits the ground with a dramatic thump. “Thank god, we’ve been walking for hours.”

He’s actually mid-bristle, a scold ready on the tip of his tongue, when Tucker follows suit. Practically face plants into the earth with a moan, stretching out on the soft earth and rolling onto his back with dirt smeared across his helmet. Washington swallows his anger and the overwhelming urge to wipe Tucker’s visor off, and shoulders the responsibility of checking the perimeter himself.

“Short range radios only. We don’t want anyone picking up on our location.” He readies a rifle, checks the knife strapped to the outside of his thigh, and turns to the last attentive member of their small team. “Perry, you and Tucker stand guard.”

The Republic soldier gives him a long stare, then turns to Tucker’s prone form. “Right,” he says, his voice sluggish with disdain, and pulls out his shotgun to hold in a ready position.

Once he’s sure that no one’s going to shoot each other - carefully, pointedly not looking at Tucker’s ass the whole time - Washington heads off into the trees.

There’s a smattering of wildlife on Chorus, if you know where to look. The native fauna, which include egg-laying vaguely canid creatures with four pairs of legs and some really unsettlingly large long-necked beaked mammals. Descendants of domestic animals long gone feral from abandoned colonies, retamed into angular livestock with too many teeth even on the chickens. Five hundred documented species of insects, none of which he has ever actually seen, and he only ever finds the long wiggly fuckers that look like sentient toothbrushes slithering out of the shower drain that not even Grey can identify.

So it’s unsettling that so much of the area is quiet - just the wind rustling the oddly spherical leaves and the occasional distant ululations of the horse-geese. He can hear his own footsteps over soft loam and firm, pebbly soil; his own breathing inside the helmet and the little ambient whir of the filtration system. Maybe at a different time in his life, Washington could have found the mountain beautiful. The veined amber bark of the long-limbed trees scattered like toothpicks across the range, studded by stouter varieties with smaller, darker foliage that were obscured from the air by the fog. But every fallen tree is only cover in a firefight, every slow movement of mist and shadow a potential threat.

There’s a crunch of boots on fallen leaves behind him. Washington spins, presses his back against the nearest tree, takes aim and waits for movement.

“Dude, don’t leave me behind with the kids.” It’s Tucker. He doesn’t even flinch as he emerges from the lingering fog and sees Washington lowering his gun and trying to give him a hard look.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that. Also, you flopped on your ass and made the decision yourself, and--”

“My special ass?” There’s a coy little tilt to his head as he speaks, nudging Washington’s gun barrel away with the end of his own firearm, careful not to point it at anything vital. Washington wants to choke him. Maybe by shoving his tongue down Tucker’s throat.

“And,” Washington repeats, because he doesn’t like being baited, “I left you behind so the kids wouldn’t kill each--”

On perfect, dramatic cue, a gunshot splinters the morning air, echoing through the mountains. Washington’s boots are already moving by the time the sound is fading, Tucker hot on his heels and puffing a “shit” as they sprint back to where they’d left the others.

He flips on his helmet’s heat vision, but it’s blurred by the lingering fog, and he switches it off when he stumbles. Tucker catches his arm, pulling him along a couple steps until Washington regains his footing, and he almost misses the firm grip on his arm when Tucker lets go. It was something to ground him as his mind races miles ahead, trying to guess the scenario. The Mercs had found them, it was a trap all along, tensions between the Federation and the New Republic had finally erupted into friendly fire--

There’s a sharp, mechanical hum and the distinct electrical burn of plasma and Tucker overtakes Washington, his key-sword bright against the mist. He doesn’t have to explain his plan. Washington is already turning to circle around before he has a chance to think about who he’s leaving behind to draw any potential fire.

No time to stop him - the only thing Washington can do is find one last burst of speed and beat Tucker to the clearing by heartbeats, gun already up and eyes flitting through the four figures.

“There you are,” Perry demands, turning to Washington with his shotgun still in his hands. There’s no bullet holes or plasma burns on his ivory armor. No seeping blood on Sinclair’s chest as she leans against the rock, her arms crossed behind her head. “Talk to your soldier about taking this mission seriously.”

Washington stares at him for a moment. Closes his eyes and briefly envisions hitting Perry in the face with the butt of his rifle. Opens them again. “What happened?” he asks, completely failing to sound like he cares.

“He asked me what the rock read,” Sinclair offers, tilting her head to the side. “I told him it said he was a piece of shit.”

Washington turns to her and he blames the weather for the next question that comes out of his mouth.

“Does it say that?”

“It doesn't say anything at all,” she says. “I just figured we needed a break.”

Washington can't quite fool himself into believing she could be apologetic when he emotes a glare in her direction, but it makes him feel better to see her break his gaze. Satisfied, he turns to Perry. “And you fired your gun because--”

“You said we couldn’t use the long-distance radio.” Perry hasn’t holstered his gun, but he’s careful not to point it at Washington or Tucker either.

With a weary hiss, Tucker’s sword is deactivated. Unfortunately, Washington can't just cease to exist and attach himself to Tucker’s thigh, so he bites his tongue and tries to be patient.

“The reason we’re not using that radio is because we don't want it to be picked up, or for anyone to know we’re here. _Gunfire_ ,” and there's an edge creeping in on Washington’s words despite his aim for diplomacy, grating like a whetstone on a dull blade, “does not help us stay incognito.”

Perry manages to make holstering a shotgun look petulant. “How else was I supposed to contact you?”

Washington doesn't have an immediate answer for that one. He pauses, throws a look at Tucker before he can catch himself. Miracle of miracles, Tucker fills in. Pity it's not every helpful.

“What, you scared of a couple Fed chicks or something?”

Perry seems to inflate with indignity as Sinclair snorts. “I-- I would never--” the Republic soldier blusters.

“We’re all a team now, Tucker,” Washington reminds him, his grip on his gun still sturdy. “Feds and Rebels don't really matter anymore. If it's an emergency - a real one - you can use the radios. Break’s over. And Sinclair?”

She faces him.

“You can carry Ophelia’s gear for the next five miles.”

The chorus of weary sighs he receives isn't as bad as it would have been if he’d tried this with the Blood Gulch sim-troopers. Ophelia is the first on her feet with Sinclair at her heels, the archaeologist struggling to keep her balance as Ophelia merrily dumps her equipment onto Sinclair’s back. So Washington holsters his gun again and marches off, keeping his head down and his shoulders square, and sweeps the ground with his eyes for any real signs of alien life.

The air is thick with the approaching weather; the rustling skree of some unknown insect (Washington hopes it's an insect, or at least that it's small) almost as unsettling as the muffled rumble of distant thunder. He keeps checking his helmet’s atmospheric conditions, which vaguely promise precipitation in the area, but he doesn't know when. It's just there, echoing occasionally off the mountains and slowly ticking up the tension of the entire group. If they're caught out in the elements, they could get lost or injured; but if Washington drives them all under cover too soon, they could shoot each other.

Only thing to do is stay vigilant and keep moving. Which is difficult to do for six going on seven fruitless hours, especially when Tucker chimes in on his private channel.

“You do know there as such things as a healthy rivalry, right?”

Washington can't really say that he does. “These guys are not the Reds and Blues, Tucker. They were in a civil war. They killed each other. The worst thing that ever happened to you guys was probably Caboose.”

“No, it was Texas.” Tucker picks up his pace until he’s on Washington’s five o’clock, his helmet still aimed at the ground. Washington can almost pretend it means he’s looking for signs of alien life. “And all her Freelancer bullshit. God, she could be such a bitch.”

“Didn’t she help you guys?”

“She helped Church. Not us. And he’s gone, so now we have this other Church and Carolina, who can also be a huge bitch.” Tucker makes a noise of disgust. “It’s like the universe has a bias for aggressive women who aren’t into me. Except for Grif’s sister. She was awesome.”

“Grif’s….” It takes him a second to recall her - her yellow armor was the only bright thing about her. She was worthless to him, and he’d just left her in the empty base with no way home.

Too late, Washington wonders if the worst thing that ever happened to Blood Gulch was him.

“Anyway,” Tucker elaborates, “it’s your kid who started it.”

“ _My_ kid?”

“Yeah. Sinclair. She’s been a pain in the ass this whole trip, and the Feds are your responsibility.”

That gets him to throw a filthy look Tucker’s way. “Okay, first of all, there is no ‘us’ and ‘them’ there’s only a we.” Wash steamrolls on before Tucker can make any sort of flirty joke about that. “Second of all, if you’re really gonna point fingers, it’s your Republic pilot that nearly got us all killed in the first place.”

“But she didn’t!” He’s not looking at the ground any more, slowed down to glower at Washington through his visor. “And she’s been working harder than your two fuck-ups at least, so--”

“She still could have killed us. The ship is damaged!” God, it’s like trying to hold onto smoke with his bare hands - Tucker just refuses to get it. “Are you really so simple that you just forget any danger the moment you’re not in the middle of it?”

“Nothing's ever good enough for you. You’re just all about what people can and can’t do, not what they _are_ doing, aren’t you?”

“I’m all about keeping everyone alive, Tucker,” Washington grits, and plants his feet. Which is just as well, because Tucker stops dead then, bristling with fury.

“Yeah,” he spits, “because between the two of us, you’re so obviously better at that than me.”

It feels like a blade between his ribs - the cold hard truth cutting deep, freezing the breath in his lungs and icing over his stilling heart. For a moment, he can’t move. For a moment, all he wants to do is tear into Tucker, bring up every mistake he’s ever made, press his gun into that soft spot right below the edge of his chest plate and fire the trigger.

But Washington doesn’t do that. Whether he would have if he’d been given another few seconds to ready his words, his weapons, is irrelevant. A pebble comes soaring out the forest, plinking off the side of his helmet as he turns.

The rest of their team has stopped, Ophelia and Sinclair kneeling together over something on the ground. Perry is gripping his gun, eyeing them uneasily, and Kanno dusts off her hands.

“Captain Tucker? Agent Washington?” the pilot asks, her voice light but obviously careful. “We think we found something.”

“Oh. That’s--”

Kanno taps the side of her helmet with two fingers. Still feeling a little sick to his stomach, Washington jumps back to the general short-range radio channel.

“Thank you, Private Kanno.”

He refuses to look back at Tucker even if it means leaving him in Washington’s blind spot, and he locks his jaw tight. The Federal Army soldiers - ‘his kids’ - are digging with their fingers around a spot of pale stone jutting out of the leafy earth. Without a word he joins them digging.

“Um,” Perry starts, clearly uneasy. “What do you want me to--”

His voice is wiped blank, as impersonal as glass but not quite as brittle. “Ask Captain Tucker what he’d like you to do.”

There’s a meaningful silence above him, between Kanno and Perry; beside him, between Sinclair and Ophelia; behind him. Then Kanno drops to her knees beside Washington, digs a thick-bladed knife from her belt and stabs it into the soil, shoveling half-decayed plant matter out of the way. He follows her example and pulls out his own, testing the weight in his hand. It’ll dull the blade; prevent it from making a good, clean cut until he can get it sharpened again.

Ophelia pauses digging to give Sinclair a curious look. “Wait,” she asks, bafflement heavy in her loud voice, “which one of them is supposed to be the mom?”

Washington plunges the knife into the earth, wrenching it back and forth until leaves and loam spurt from the wound. Does it again and again until he can’t feel Tucker behind him anymore, or the way the armor cuts into his kneecaps, or anything at all.

 

* * *

 

It’s getting dark when they find the center of the plateau - the digging had sped up considerably when Ophelia remembered the collapsible pickaxe strapped in with the rest of the demolition equipment on her back. There’s a small alcove, big enough for their group to find shelter inside, but it’s half-smothered in trees. And even after Tucker - silent, stiff, sloppy - had sliced out a way under the overhang with his key-sword, everything remained still. The skeleton of whatever this place had been remained as merely a support for the verdant greenery that covered it like a funeral shroud, hiding it from the invasive sky high above the fog.

According to Washington’s map, they’re very near the peak of the smallest mountain in the Loreleis. The stone they stand on seems fairly similar to the kind used in some of the other temples, too, though they can’t be too sure. It’s all been buried by plants and centuries of neglect. Reclaimed by nature.

Even if it’s not a tomb, a little part of Washington feels guilty for the wreckage they’ve made of the place. The rest of him is practically dying to blow it all skyhigh so he can go back to Armonia and shoot things until he feels better. But Sinclair is finally behaving - cooperating, even, with Kanno as she rambles to the pilot about the level of wear and how hard of a time she’s having deciphering anything from the filthy stones - so for now, he’s waiting.

A new request for a private conversation pops up in the corner of his visor. It’s from Tucker. Washington can just barely see him in the corner of his eye, near where Ophelia is eating a ration pack. He’s hunched over with his forearms resting on his knees, his inactive sword dangling from his hand. Watching Washington.

Washington declines the conversation and pointedly turns away, shining his helmet beams on the nearest patch of wall and picking gently at it with his dulled knife tip. Tucker’s right, in some respects. He really isn’t qualified to keep a team alive. But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

No matter how much some of them might occasionally piss him off.

“Are these sacred plants or something?” Perry asks, hovering over Kanno’s shoulder. She’s borrowed some of his lock-picks to help with the finer detail work of excavating, leaving him with nothing to do but stand guard. Washington would appreciate his vigilance more if it came with silence. “Are we all going to get strangled in the night by furious, haunted vines?”

“Haunted vines?” Sinclair asks, her tone obviously sweet with bait. Perry tries to look down his nose at her, or maybe just chooses to stare blankly above her head. Kind of hard to tell.

The key-sword buzzes to life once more; all eyes turn to Tucker, who is standing at the edge of the overhang and rather dramatically silhouetted against the fog. “Kanno, let’s go bring the Banshee back here. Even if this isn’t what we’re looking for, it should be a good shelter from the rain.”

“Oh. Sure, I guess.” Kanno scrambles to her feet and shoves the lockpicks back at Perry. “Here, take over for me.”

Tucker turns to Washington, his shoulders tense and his free hand in a tight fist. Washington can almost see himself reflected on Tucker’s visor, kneeling, staring up at him over his shoulder. But Washington turns away first, and Tucker steps out into the fog with Kanno at his heels, his key-sword glowing like a chunk of lightning until it’s swallowed up in the grey.

It’s only the sound of Sinclair and Perry bickering again that drags Washington’s attention back inside the overhang.

“Ophelia worked enough digging this place out for your ungrateful Rebel ass. You’d probably gouge anything useful, anyway.”

“Maybe if you bothered to instruct me, I’d know what’s useful and what isn’t, you waspy little--”

“Sinclair.” Washington waits until her helmet slumps in his direction before continuing. “Perry.”

Both soldiers stare him down, arms crossed and obviously scowling behind their visors; for all their differences, they’re strikingly alike.

“The sooner we can find a way in, the sooner we can leave.”

Perry and Sinclair exchange glances; then the Fed soldier offers her hand. Perry stares at her a moment longer before shaking it, trepidation obvious in every inch of his caramel-accented armor, but they settle down to work side by side anyway.

Washington turns back to his own wall, then, peeling away vines and sawing through them when they refused to snap cleanly off the ceiling.  He’s making a small pile of the stuff near his feet, where the roots of a tree have made the stone buckle. It had partially grown around the stone alcove, and there’s a lingering warmth from where the wood still smolders in the wake of Tucker’s keysword. In a couple years, if they leave it alone, the tree will probably scar - new bark bubble over the rough edges, smooth the worst of the damage. It will grow on, ignorant and oblivious to whoever owns the planet where it’s buried its roots.

His palm comes away damp when he withdraws it from the stone, and he clenches his hand in a fist.

 

* * *

 

About the glass.

See, if we're talking about the typical beverage cup used in metaphors, Washington used to be a glass half full kind of guy. Believed in other people. Believed in himself. Sure, maybe he was a little gullible at times, but you’re supposed to follow orders in a war. Rebellion is what gets people killed. Is what got Connie killed, and York, and Maine and North and South and…

… Anyway. About the glass. Tucker’s glass.

It’s just-- he’s grown out of that hopeful phase of his life. Gotten the worst of it beaten out of him by every last one of those Agents, by the UNSC he’d wanted so badly to help, by nearly everyone whose orders he’s followed. So sometimes he wishes that the thoughts he has for Tucker could be-- could be half full because it’s just _so much_ sometimes.

It’s frightening. It makes him want to believe in things again. In the Blues and Reds, in the Federation and the New Republic. In Epsilon. In himself. And he doesn’t know if he wants to do that again. Not when all of it could just be ripped away in a moment of weakness, of believing that his friends would tell him if something was wrong, that they’d watch his back if things went sour. That he could be capable enough to watch theirs.

The thing about trust is that, like glass, it’s fragile. Transparent. Easily broken.

No one else would understand why that could be a bad thing, except for Carolina. And it’s been a long time since they had a conversation; something that wasn’t about battle strategy or finding the Director, something that went deeper than asking if she’d slept. He wants to ask her too many things to discuss over breakfast, like; _how do you know which side to pick?_ and  _why does Epsilon work for you and not for me?_ and _do you still hear their voices when you dream?_

But really, what he wants to ask her is _how do you let yourself love someone who is always standing in the crosshairs of a gun?_

 

* * *

 

Kanno radios in a warning when she flies the Banshee in range - this time she manages to land it upright a couple hundred yards away - so Washington only panics a little at the sound of roaring engines. He stations himself as still as stone by a rotting tree outside the alcove, whole body tense as he waits for them in the gathering dark. It’s hard to tell with all the fog, but the clouds finally seem to be gathering overhead.

The flash he takes for Tucker’s key-sword proves to be lightning, and thunder rumbles shortly afterward. Washington keeps his breathing calm and even, safe inside his armor, and continues to wait. He’s not angry anymore, not really; just bruised, tender to the touch. He’s equal parts ready to bite the hand that dares to get too close and anxious that it never will. 

The cool _snick_ of his rifle cocking reassures Washington in the oppressive silence. Not even the insects are crying, having fled to safer climes or their own little nests. The HUD in his helmet warns him of the unstable weather patterns. A potential for high amounts of lightning and heavy rain, and approaching fast.

His radio buzzes to life. “Agent Washington?”

“Kanno?” he replies. Too soon to feel relief. Not until they’re both back, safe, under the stone and ivy roof. Until they’re all back in Armonia, and even then Washington will not be able to sleep.

“Oh, good, we _are_ heading in the right direction. Uh, we’re a little lost, can you drop a tracker or something?”

Paranoia worms its way into the back of his mind, gnawing indecisively at his thoughts. “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he says, lowly. “Can you ask Tucker to activate his keysword?”

“You could just ask me yourself, dumbass.” The reply is immediate, and a little terse. Washington sinks deeper into his crouch beside the dead tree, even as it makes his knees creak in protest. But there’s a flash of electric blue, this one low on the horizon and steady like a beacon, and Washington rises to follow it.

Another crack of thunder erupts overhead, echoing off the Loreleis like gunfire; he keeps his gun firmly in both hands as he walks through the fog and sees both teammates unharmed. “Glad you made it back,” he says on reflex; Tucker’s sword hisses like a trapped snake as he deactivates it.

“Any progress?” Kanno asks brightly.

“Not much. We found a seam, maybe. Ophelia’s gonna blow it open once the storm passes.” Washington turns and leads them back to the alcove, hyper-aware of Tucker even as he fills in Kanno of the events of the last couple hours, as the first raindrops start to fall.

Under shelter, Perry and Ophelia chip gleefully away at a hairline seam in the knife-scored stone as Sinclair lounges in the corner, taking up a fourth of the entire floor. The way the lights on their helmets flicker as they move is somewhat reminiscent of pale firelight, dancing on the walls. Sinclair deigns to curl her legs up out of the way as Kanno slips between Perry and Ophelia and strikes up a conversation, easy as breathing. Which leaves Tucker and Washington alone, conspicuously far apart, standing just inside the overhang.

There’s no prompt for a private channel this time; just the feeling of Tucker watching him as Washington stands and stares out at the rain, feet shoulder-width apart, rifle steady in his hands. The forest floor absorbs the worst of the splash and the sound, but as the downpour increases it can’t keep up; little rivulets form and course around the buried stone plateau, tearing decaying leaves away from their brethren to carry them, swirling, down the mountainside. He wants to turn away and focus on something else - something useful, something he can fix or change without prying himself open again - but he can’t move.

That is, he can’t move until Tucker abruptly steps out into the rain and starts walking down the rain-slick slope. “Tucker,” he calls, automatically - no response. Washington throws a look over his shoulder; Kanno and Ophelia are already turning back to their work, Perry’s slumped against the pilot’s shoulder and watching him, and Sinclair could feasibly be sleeping. By the time he looks back, Tucker is nearly out of sight, and Washington’s legs move for him.

“Tucker,” he repeats, tapping the side of his helmet to send the request for a private channel. “Where are you going?”

To his surprise, the request is accepted. “What, you gonna watch me take a piss?” There’s little venom in Tucker’s voice, just weariness. Lingering tension, like he’s been pulled too far for too long in too many directions.

At another time, the temptation to joke ‘you should have gone before you left’ would have won out. As it is, Washington holsters his rifle and hurries to catch up. “Can it wait?” he asks, as if he can stop Tucker with his words.

“No, it can’t.” But he halts anyway, with a noise that’s pure frustration, and turns on Washington again. Tucker’s hands ball into fists, then flatten as he flexes his fingers with a heavy sigh. “God, you drive me insane sometimes.”

He doesn’t want to fight with Tucker. Not now. Now when they’re out here, in the pouring rain with thunder resonating through the mountains, lightning flashing above the trees. “ _I_ drive _you_ insane?” he demands anyway, because his everything tends to run away with him when it comes to Tucker.

“Yes, you do. Look, I,” he reaches upwards, wipes a streak of rainwater off the middle of his visor, “I’m sorry for what I said earlier, but-- god, you just never--”

Now that he’s looking at Tucker - now that he’s listening, really listening, he can’t turn away. Washington holds his arms at his side and waits, biting his tongue. Tucker makes another infuriated noise, shaking his head as rainwater courses down his armor, seeping cool and insidious into the kevlar undersuit like it does for Washington.

“I know-- you’re not stupid, Tucker,” he starts eventually, when it becomes clear the rain is the only reply Washington will be getting for a while. God, does he ever know that. “I just see how good you can be and--”

“Yeah, I know, that’s not the problem. It’s just,” and Tucker heaves another sigh, staring at the ground between them. Washington follows his gaze; there’s a little bit of pale stone below them, the same kind as the walls in the alcove, washing clean with the downpour. “Hang on.”

Movement catches his eye again, and for the second time in a short span of hours, Washington’s heart stops dead. Without so much as a backwards glance, Tucker removes his helmet, gives his head a little shake and takes in a deep breath. It’s hard to tell in the gloom, but Washington can feel their eyes meet anyway.

“Tucker,” he says, softly, barely able to hear himself over the alarms going off in his head. “Put it back on.”

Of course Tucker ignores him. “Come here,” he offers, or something like it - Washington can barely hear him over the constant drumming of the rain against his helmet. The hand that reaches for the side of his face is unmistakable, however.

He takes a step back and sees, clear as day, a sniper bullet hit the side of Tucker’s head; in agonizing slow motion, the pucker and bloom of a through-and-through, spraying blood and bone and leaving only a sloppy mess above Tucker’s neck.

“No,” Washington begs, shutting his eyes against the nightmare. Opens them just to see it happen again. It’s not real, he knows that, but god it could be and he can’t let that happen.  “No, Tucker, put it back--”

“I can’t hear you with your helmet on,” Tucker shouts into his face, a little glimmer of white teeth visible when he smiles, and Washington can’t move when Tucker steps in and pops the seals on his helmet, reaches around to grab the back and pull. He just closes his eyes and holds his breath and hopes, prays, that he gets shot first because he deserves it. This is how he’ll die, then; shot to death on Chorus because his goddamned crush makes him vulnerable and slow.

The first thing he feels is the rain.

Washington had assumed it’d feel gritty and dirty, like it feels sometimes in Armonia or now from where it’s saturating his undersuit. But it feels cleaner than the showers, than anything he’s felt in a long time, and he opens his eyes. The diluted teal of Tucker’s boots seem brighter and cooler without the tint from his visor, and their helmets nudge each other playfully in each of Tucker’s hands.

He takes in a deep, shuddering breath of unfiltered mountain air and tastes the rain in the back of his throat; raw and fresh and unfamiliar, after so many years in space. Slowly, his heart slamming against his chest and trying to crawl out of his throat, Washington raises his head.

Tucker’s still there. Still smiling at him in the rain and the blue-grey darkness, just a flash of teeth and sclera in the shadow of his face. No splatter other than the rain that’s soaking into Washington’s short hair, weighing it down to plaster across his forehead and run sweat-flavored trails down his nose and cheeks. He inhales again, holds it a moment, lets it out. Tucker’s still here. He’s okay. They’re okay.

“Just-- take a moment, Wash,” he says, like it’s just that easy. “You don’t have to be so _on_ all the fucking time, okay? The perimeter’s safe. I checked it on the way in.”

His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, but that means Tucker’s is, too; and any moment now, he’ll see the way Washington can feel himself staring at him, feeling raw like an exposed nerve. It’s too much, too much - he wants to run, to hide, to bury this all before it all comes spilling out and he tells Tucker how he has the worst track record for keeping his friends alive but that’s why he has to _change._ He has to keep them all alive, at any cost to himself, because losing them would hurt more than any bullet could.

“Like, seriously,” and Tucker reaches out, kneads his thumb in the center of Washington’s forehead, sliding down to rub between his eyebrows, “you’ve got to have the worst frown lines--”

The hug, he thinks, takes them both by surprise. Washington isn’t really known for being impulsive or physically affectionate, but it’s cold and it’s been a shit day, shit week, shit lifetime and he just needs to feel the back of Tucker’s head under his fingertips, warm and soft with his close-trimmed curly hair.

“O-kay, this works too. Little tight, but. _Bow chika_ _,_ you know?” He can feel Tucker’s smile against his cheekbone, as Tucker reaches up to rub at the base of Wash’s skull. “You okay?”

“Getting there.” He doesn’t trust his voice, his heart still hammering in his chest and his mouth going a little dry. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Nice to see your pretty face again.”

From this close, he can also feel Tucker go very, very still; can hear him swallow and almost, almost feel the blood rush to his cheeks.

“You think my face is pretty?” asks Washington, and if his voice could only be this steady all the time he could bullshit better than Felix.

Carefully, Tucker pulls a little bit away; just far enough to study him. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I think it’s--”

The kiss is a mess. He’s a mess. It’s pouring down rain and he doesn’t get why that’s supposed to be any big sort of romantic trope because Washington’s cheeks are hot but the rest of him is goddamn cold and he’s scared, out of practice and scared as he cups Tucker’s jaw with his gloved hands. Everything in him feels like it’s overflowing, chasing the leaves down the mountainside, and Washington only lets go when he has to breathe.

“--fuck,” Tucker exhales, his breath warm as it fans across Washington’s face. One of their helmets bounces off his boot.

Washington swallows, breathes, stays still, torn between freezing over and kissing Tucker again.  The earth is soft beneath his feet and he’s afraid to move too fast as he slowly retracts his hands. Doubt is already catching up with him, hissing in the back of his mind that he made a mistake, took it too far, assumed too much and now look at the disaster he’s made.

Tucker catches his wrists and stares at him a moment longer, then mutters something under his breath that Washington can’t quite catch and drags him back in for another kiss and. And.

… Ah. That’s why it’s romantic. Tucker’s lips are so slick he feels like he’s spinning out of control, his pulse spiking and his hands grabbing Tucker’s chestplate and damn it, it’s good. He didn’t want it to be good but it is, gets even better when Tucker pulls a little on his hair and slips his tongue between Washington’s lips and it kind of hurts. It’s so much. It’s a tidal wave, crashing over him and dragging him away from shore to drown and he doesn’t even care. The little noise Tucker makes when Washington rubs his thumb along his jawline is a good as oxygen to him, distinct even over the roar of thunder.

Except that it’s not thunder. Washington pulls away a mile-long inch to listen and he feels the earth tremble under his feet. Faster than thought, he sweeps Tucker’s legs out from under him and Washington kneels over his chest, rifle already in his hands before his eyes can even focus on the trees. He’s still slow, a couple heartbeats behind where he should be, but his hands are steady as he covers Tucker with his body and his gun.

Silence. Stillness, aside from the storm.

“Okay, not cool,” Tucker laments below him, as their helmets a few feet away burst into urgent static. Not taking his eyes off their surroundings, Washington gets off Tucker and reaches blindly down for a helmet.

“--a second, Perry, oh my god if you fire that gun in here I will stab you in the--”

“Sinclair,” Washington cuts her off, his voice hoarse before he can clear it, steady it, temper it like steel. “What’s happening?”

“It looks like the tomb’s waking up. You might wanna bring the sword-- hang on,” and there’s a huff of pain from Perry as she presumably swats him, “put the shotgun down, they’re coming.” She laughs, a breathy little thing, and Washington turns back. Tucker is on his feet again, glaring at him and holding the other helmet - Washington tilts his head in the universal sign for ‘follow me’ and they sprint back to the alcove.

Now that he’s back in the moment, Washington can see the little flashes of light from the mountain behind the alcove, like the storm is in the soil and the sky both, bleeding from between the gaps in the roots of trembling trees. His hair is uncomfortably wet inside the helmet, making it fit too loose around the back of his head, and when he skids to a stop inside the alcove it bobs forward, scraping against the bridge of his nose.

“Everyone all right?” he asks, breathlessly. Perry, Kanno and Ophelia all turn to look at him and seem to freeze. Sinclair doesn’t so much as look his way as she kneels in front of a holographic, sputtering display. Not until Ophelia kicks her in the thigh.

“Ow, what the hell, babe, I’m-- _ohhhhh my god_ ,” she sputters. Washington jerks to look behind him, and sees Tucker wiping some of the rain off his face. Washington’s helmet is dangling from his hand, and in the lights of four different helmet lamps Tucker’s barely there grin with suggestively plump lips tells the rest of the story.

With a weary sigh, Kanno digs a pack of cigarettes out of her belt and passes it to Perry.

Tucker hands the helmet off to Washington, mutters a “okay, get back” and activates the key-sword with that fluid little flick of his wrist Washington has always appreciated. Except for right now, when he has to turn away to switch helmets because his face is too red.

He hears the hum of the plasma blade through their air, then a satisfying synthetic little _snick_ of a virtual lock coming undone.

“ _Hello, bearer of the Great Key_ ,” replies a static-rough, ambiguously female voice. “ _Wel-c-c-come to the Temple of Procreation_.”

“Ho-ly shit,” Perry yelps, drawing out all three syllables, colliding into Washington as he steps back. Washington drops both helmets and whips around to grab Tucker’s wrist preemptively.

“No,” he orders, staring Tucker down, still sporting his conspicuously just-kissed-in-the-rain flush.

“That would explain all the plants,” Ophelia mentions thoughtfully, as Tucker’s shoulders shake with laughter he can barely contain.

“Hey, Tower,” Tucker asks, without looking away from Washington, “how did we manage to wake you up? True love’s kiss?”

“ _Unfamiliar term: true love’s kiss_ ,” says the voice, “ _The necessary offering was given by a Keybearer on s-s-s-sacred ground._ ”

“No,” Washington says again, his voice raising in pitch despite his best efforts. “Tucker, seriously, no. We’re not using this.”

“I think that’s up for debate, really,” Tucker counters. “I know more than a few people back in Armonia that seriously need to get laid.”

“ _A-hem_.” Perry insists, standing just outside in the rain and looking especially miserable. “If we’re still trying to be stealthy, shouldn’t we do something about the whole mountain waking up?”

“Oh. Yeah, Tower, just kinda.” Tucker makes a patting gesture with his sword. “Relax for a second, okay?”

“ _Unfamiliar term: relax._ ”

“Just stop glowing and shaking for a bit.”

“ _Affirmative._ ” The ground stills beneath their feet, even as a branch of lightning forks across the sky and the resulting thundercrack makes Perry flinch.

Pinning Tucker’s helmet between his knees and ignoring the low whistle that earns him, Washington ducks his head back inside his helmet and stands up straight.“Tucker and I are going to go send a message back to Armonia from the ship,” he says, in his very best Carolina voice. “Until we get back, don’t activate anything. I mean it.”

“Yes, sir,” Kanno says, with a bit of resignation to her voice. Sinclair has already turned back to Ophelia; at least they seem to have finally figured out how the private channel on their radios work. A small mercy.

This time, Washington is the one leading them off into the rain once more, and accepting the private conversation from Tucker.

“So,” comes his voice, no less sultry-sweet from being filtered through the radio, “you and I alone in the ship, huh?”

“You told me to stop leaving you with the kids,” Washington says evenly, having mopped up the worst of his mess. He is the pinnacle of composure right now. “And I’m not leaving you back there with the power to make an entire population fuck each other.”

“Like I’d need the edge,” Tucker replies, a carefully telegraphed elbow nudging Washington in the side. All it really serves is to remind Washington how soaked he is, and how much he just wants to get out of this armor and into something dry.

Like he can read Washington’s goddamned mind, the moment they’re ducking under the wing of the Banshee, Tucker is stepping in front of him, sliding his hands up Washington’s chestplate.

“If nothing else, we could get outta these clothes and let them dry off for a bit. Share body heat and all that.”

“No,” and maybe his voice isn’t as strong as it was before, whatever, “I am not fooling around with you on sacred ground, _Keyholder_. God knows what else we’d end up activating.”

“But later?”

Washington sidesteps him to lean over the console and starts hunting through the interface to find the more secure line of communication.

“Hey, now,” Tucker says, a little softer this time, “if you’re gonna one-and-done me, Wash, we gotta at least make it to third base.”

He stops, wet palms pressed against the console, and throws a look back over his shoulder. Tucker’s leaning against the nearest wall - which is already at an uncomfortable angle, and he could almost be lounging on it instead - with his arms crossed, but Washington can spot the way he’s thumbing the edge of one gauntlet back and forth, back and forth.

“Do I wanna know,” he asks, tone carefully flat, “what your definition of third base is?”

“You’re the one who kissed me. You tell me.”

Well, he can’t really deny that one. “... Later,” Washington says at last, and he knows it’s the right thing when Tucker lights up, his delight palpable through every inch of his dripping teal armor.

“But we can kiss more, now, right?”

“Let me message Armonia first.”

Tucker just peels off his helmet again, and shakes a few errant rain droplets out of his hair. “Sure, Wash,” and this time he really does lounge, stretches out one leg and rests his chin in one gloved hand. A small feat on a 60 degree surface. “I’ll wait.”

Washington stares at him for a long, hard moment, then locks the door to the ship. Armonia can wait a couple more minutes.

 

* * *

 

“Are we ready to head out, Agent Washington?” Kanno asks, the Banshee moderately stable hovering above the half-buried Temple. The fog has cleared and the rain has lessened to a fine drizzle, seeping drops through the hole in the windshield. Through patches of clouds edged in ruby, the evening sky glitters with a few early, unfamiliar stars.

“Just wait a little longer. I want to see this.” His helmet clicks against the glass as Tucker appears at his shoulder, with no regard to his personal space. It’s wildly unprofessional. Their team has seen worse.

Below, the Temple flickers green-blue under the earth, pulsing like a heartbeat; slowly, starting in the centermost trees, buds appear, swelling to bursting before their eyes. The wind stirs up a hint of their scent - a subtle kind of sweet, with a little pungency behind it. Crackling with the speed of their growth, the trees double, triple in size, their branches reaching upwards as in in praise as vines hurry to cover them until every trace of the Temple below is hidden in a sea of plants that stretches across half the mountain face.

“We’ll be back, right?” Sinclair asks. “When this is over? There’s still so much more we could have learned.”

For a moment, Washington wonders what that would feel like; what would happen, when this war was over. Would he just move on to the next, or would he finally, finally make it home?

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find it again,” he assures her anyway, and leans just a little bit against Tucker.

A private conversation request pops up; with a sigh, Washington braces himself for the inevitable sex joke - probably one about hard wood, or seeds - and answers.

“Yes, Tucker?”

“We better try to keep her alive until then, huh?”

He swallows down the lump in his throat. “Oh, _now_ she’s our kid.”

“Of course she’s our kid, have you ever raised a child? You would be lost without me. I raised the shit out of Junior. Literally. You have no idea how many diapers we went through back in Blood Gulch, and that’s not even counting the ones Caboose kept stealing for some reason.”

It still feels like too much, even with Tucker making a show of leaning casually on Washington’s shoulder as Kanno jerks the Banshee around to head back to Armonia. But he can deal with it.

 

* * *

 

This is how it’s supposed to go. _David McCormick, alias_ _Agent Washington, decorated hero of the UNSC and a key player in the great Chorus War, dies at 92 in his home on Colony 644._ _A survivor of the corrupt Project Freelancer, Agent Washington overcame great personal and professional trials to continue to fight for peace and justice across the galaxy. A funeral service is to be held in Colony 644 on Monday, and his name shall be added to the plaque on the General Donald Doyle Memorial Wall in Armonia. He is survived by his spouse._

Whether he makes it there or not, well.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> added: there's fANART OF THIS TOO???? W O W YOU GUYS IM IN LOVE
> 
> http://duckaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/150157928287/emotional-smooch-in-the-rain-based-on-this-fic


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